


Like clouds in the lit heaven of life

by GwenChan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: The War has ended, it should be time for them to enjoy the luxury of calm, peace and victory. It was a promise, one onto which England hang during the War. But calm also brings with it new doubts and the war wounds are still too fresh to have completely healed.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	Like clouds in the lit heaven of life

Slow. If England has to pick an adjective to describe the evening, slow will do, and slow is what he expects from what France calls “proper lovemaking”. To be slow. To finally cherish, and dwell in, all the quiet and time in the world.

He brings his knees to his chest, water sloshing a bit with the movement. It’s been almost an hour since he stepped inside the bath and he wouldn’t be surprised to discover France has fallen asleep waiting for him. He still doesn’t care. Not when having a bath is a luxury he still can’t believe to be real. To have enough water to clean every crease of his body, every fold and wound, is a novelty. 

He wants to bathe till his skin is all wrinkled and all the blood and mud have been washed down the drain. 

He stays in the bathtub till the water has cooled down to freezing and it stops being pleasant, bringing with it memories of sensations still too fresh and near. It shakes England more than the temperature, as he steps outside and grabs a clean, dry towel to wrap around his waist. 

Given their plan for the night, France would say it’s useless. He does it nonetheless.

Contrary to England’s predictions, France is still awake. He’s sitting propped against the bed headboard, with only a soft sheet to cover a body England knows for certain is already naked, a pair of reading glasses riding low on the tip of his nose, and a book in his hands.

“Oh, there you are,” France smiles, setting the glasses and the volume aside with no further questions asked or any reprimand. England nods. His fingers curl around the towel as he walks inside the bedroom and toward the bed, suddenly feeling so shy and stupid. 

Because, thinking about it, slow and proper have never been his thing. Because slow and proper make him overthink stuff, and it’s never pretty when he does. In the trenches there wasn’t the time to wonder about the hows or the ifs, asking himself if it was right. There it was their bodies and the rotten flesh, the maddening urgency mingled with terrible stillness. 

It was only sex, fucking with no strings or faces attached. 

But now there are strings, and a familiar visage staring back at him with a dear expression.

France rolls on his side. “We don’t have to do it if you don’t want,” he says, which is meant to help, but only makes things worse. 

“It’s not that,” England huffs, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’s only,” he continues, shrugging, tongue twisting around the words because France has always been the one unashamed of talking about his desires, not him. “I don’t feel like topping tonight," he says, eventually. 

It prompts a fresh, unexpected hand on his forehead. 

"No," France frowns, palm still resting on England's skin, "you don't have any fever."

England slaps the hand away in response. “Of course I don’t,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. It makes things a bit more familiar, a little less awkward. France has the right to be surprised, for normally England dislikes being in any form of submission, including bottoming. 

But he’s also so, so tired. 

“I don’t want to think today,” he says. It feels too much. Too much to control, to feel and to think. First with the war and all the fronts, the land and the sea and, fuck, yes, even the sky. There are all the colonies, the riches and the downsides, the glories and the rebellions, the Great Empire that sometimes feels like a prize and sometimes like a terrible doom. 

For once, he needs someone else to think. This is France’s field of expertise and England is more than happy to leave him the floor. 

“Alright.”

That’s all France says, as he crawls between England’s open legs, fingertips brushing against his cheeks, the cupping too light to be described as a proper hold. 

“Relax and let me. I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs. His first kiss isn't for England's lips, but placed right at the corner, a butterfly peck as his fingers naturally move to tangle into England's short hair. 

Soon one hand cups England's nape, as the other descends till it's splaying over the jutting hipbone, resting there without the usual urgency and strength. It's warm.

France's second kiss is for the jawline, where it melts into the expanse of the throat. Open-mouthed kisses, humid and, above all, slow. 

Slow in the way France moves to suck lightly at England's Adam’s apple, using a hint of teeth to scrape at the delicate skin. Slow in how he's treating him, as he truly fears he may break at any moment. 

Sensual, one may say to describe it, but it wouldn't be right. France knows England well enough it would take only a few, precise touches to make him a moaning mess. If he were seducing him, his kisses would be deeper, his caresses more languid, his hands already roaming all over England’s body. He wouldn't hesitate to leave a wet trail all over England's chest down to his cock.

A single word, one command, and by mouth or hand France would be already pumping his cock to the last drop.

But sensual isn’t what they’re having tonight. France isn’t seducing him. He’s taking care of him. It isn't sex, but love, attentive, caring and utterly terrifying. 

“No."

More than the ushered word, it’s England's hands put palm flat against France’s chest with sufficient force to push him away. His body curls on itself, and his face turns to look at the door, away from France, his gaze, and his care. 

“We can’t. I can’t,” he mutters.

‘To make love’ sounded like a nice idea, even a wonderful idea, back in the trenches, where anything would have been better than that. To finally sleep with clean sheets, after having had a long bath and a good meal, and to let France do his magic with mouth and hands and everything. 

It sounded like a solid plan. For entire days England grabbed at that single desire when everything else failed. Because his old enemy was a bother, a blabbermouth, cocky and arrogant, often a pervert, but he surely knew how to move in bed.

But those were the trenches and this is a hotel room. 

France’s touch on his shoulder is too gentle now. “What is it?” he asks and it has only the slightest hint of annoyance. Its lack would be worse. England scoots a bit further toward the edge of the bed. “Nothing.”

Once sex between them was easy, a matter of passion and hate, no labels or worries. Only two enemies fucking. 

Fucking, it has always been that. A past time, nothing more, nothing less. Fucking in hotel rooms after having signed treaties, fucking in empty rooms in royal palaces during conferences, fucking in a smelly dugout among the rats and mud. 

England's good at fucking. There are no pesky feelings where fucking, no questions left unanswered, only two bodies and their needs. Fucking is normal. Fucking is simple. 

This isn’t.

"It is not ‘nothing’.”

England can feel France shifting on the mattress, moving till he's laying next to him, chest almost plastered to his bent back. His breath is warm and tickling and it sends goosebumps all over England's body. 

“You’re overthinking,” France whispers, leaning closer, as a matter of fact, with his nose tip brushing England’s nape. “You always overthink.” He pauses and laughs, low and soft. “You smell good.”

This also matters. Smelling good had been a luxury for a long, long time. Still, France is not the type to give England compliments without taking them back seconds later with a jab. England stills, in wait. He’ll try to slap France, France will pin him down and kiss him and finally lust will do the rest.

No jab comes. It seems like today France is forcing him to express his desires instead of anticipating them. As if he's not hating him enough already. 

“What is it?" he insists. His breath ghosts on England's skin. No doubt some centimetres more and England would feel his half-hard cock press against his arse. It makes his blood rush down with new desires.

“Touch me,” England’s plea is a half mutter, low and one he is not going to repeat. He doesn't have to.

When France’s hands connect again with his body, it’s different. He still treats him like he's fragile, but his touches are stronger, more solid. They ground England into the security of something he knows and thus can comprehend. 

It’s familiar as the grunts through gritted teeth from a hot mouth pressed on his shoulder line, and calloused fingers circling at his nipples. England can't help but roll his eyes. Of course, France can’t go directly to the point to give him a quick, simple release. He has to pass through every single step of foreplay from the manual.

It’s an old trick and yet England’s breath still hitches in feeling France’s digits pinching and rolling one nipple between index and thumb, deliberately, his mouth now against his ear. 

"That's it. Good," he murmurs, taking England's lobe between his teeth, gently, continuing to caress one nipple at a time. His voice is low, husky, and familiar in the way it makes England’s body shiver and twitch. 

"You still want this?" 

France’s other hand ghosts over England's lower abdomen; some inches more and he would be cupping at England’s crotch, which he surely realises. But he doesn’t touch, yet. Not without an answer. 

“Yes,” England breathes out.

A quick gesture and the towel slides down his hips. He shivers at the room’s fresh air. Seconds later, France is already flipping him onto his back, arms bracketing his body. He doesn't waste any more time, hands going to cup his cheeks, and lips on his. 

Soft lips, plump lips, talented lips. France is an amazing kisser and England melts into the touch. 

The kiss is long and slow. No more hunger or desperation, but tender touches. France traces England's bottom lip with his tongue before trapping it between his teeth, nibbling gently. He coaxes England's mouth open and England's hands go to grab at France's shoulder blades, a new anchor, as France's tongue is inside his pliant mouth. France sucks on England’s tongue and England moans around it, throwing his head back into the pillow, with warmth pooling down in his lower belly and into his stirring cock.

"You alright?" France stops long enough to ask. England hums his answer. He brings one arm to cover his face, turning his head aside. One last peck on his lips and France is going down to pepper kisses on his throat, between his collar bones, his chest. His tongue laps at England's already abused nipples, taking his time, cherishing such a luxury. He thrives from the feeling of naked, even quivering skin against his own, no more the rigid fabric of uniforms so dirty they would stand even without a body occupying them. 

Positioned like they are, England can't see France's expression, but he doesn’t need to know how joyous his eyes must be. France lives for love and touch is the language he speaks the most fluently. 

He sings poetry with no words down on England's abdomen until he's holding one of his legs up and nibbling at his inner thigh. He'll leave a mark for the next day.

"Are you going to?" 

England's question is more of a sincere doubt than an invitation to quicken things. 

"Yes," France hums in response, moving to brush his nose over the skin of England's cock, the vibrations of his lips travelling into all the nerves there. Though not unexpected, the engulfment is quick enough that England bucks his hips up in a jerking, uncontrolled motion. His fingers grab the sheets.

"Fuck," he breathes out, France taking all his length in one easy motion, till the tip is brushing against his throat, in humid, obscene heaven. 

It has nothing to do with the fast, urgent handjobs and blowjobs in the parenthesis between rain and shrapnel, with dry hands or dry mouths over dry skin. Shoving the other against the first available wall, not caring for anything else for a handful of minutes, unbuckling the belt only to take their cocks out. Fast stroking. Mechanical.

There's little of anything mechanical in what France is doing down there, with all the lapping and sucking, hollowing his cheeks around a murmuration and taking England's cock in all his length. He doesn't want to make him come fast. It wouldn’t be funny and he’s always had a penchant for bringing his lovers to the edge to maximise pleasure when it’s finally delivered. 

England has experienced it first hand. Normally he would protest, his hands grabbing at France’s hair to take from him his wanted and expected release. On other occasions, he would fuck his mouth.

Tonight is different and England digs his heels into the mattress, resigning to leave the matter in France’s hands, and with a mouth that let go of his hard cock too soon.

France smiles, lips glistening with spit, as he stretches toward the nightstand to grab the bottle of lube. He pours a nice amount onto his palm, warming it and going directly to circle at his own hole. 

"I thought I told you I didn't want to top," England grimaces, about to start a string of complaining that France is quick in stopping. 

"I know. But when was the last time you bottomed?"

England shrugs and knits his brows together. It's been a while, for sure. Certainly before the war. At the beginning of the century, probably. Even earlier than that, with France for his partner.

"Some decades," he admits, propping himself a bit more onto his elbows. "It still doesn't matter. I won't top," he insists, with a tone harsh enough to make France stop mid-way in preparing himself. The lube meant for his entrance goes instead to rub on his cock and it's absurd how casual he can be when doing something so intimate. He truly has no shame.

"If you fear it'll be too tiring, trust me, I can ride you and you won't have to move a finger," he says, as a matter of fact. England doesn’t doubt it would be enjoyable. France is glowing, nothing like the butchered man who grabbed at his lips and cock to feel alive.

He lets his eyes fall closed. "No." 

To explain why would take too long, would be too complex. France is right, he doesn't bottom often, but tonight he feels like it. "I won't top. I'm positive."

"Alright."

Soon the lube is back in France's already sticky hands as he pours a new amount. "Breathe or it'll hurt more," he warns, ever so careful, prompting a hollow snicker from England lips, a sad, joyless cackling. They've been in Hell for four years, even with their immortality, and now France is worrying about some discomfort in his arse. 

"I think I can handle it," he says, spreading his legs more. "Get on with it."

"You -"

By the way his lips are curled, France must be about to add something, but whatever that would be is left as mystery. He closes his mouth and nods. 

As predicted, the intrusion is awkward and unpleasant. No use in denying it in words when England's body tenses, nails digging into the mattress and eyes on the ceiling, stubbornly. France may be calling him, but he’ll ignore it till this has passed. It always does. Worse things have passed, like having to regrow whole organs, and this shall too. 

France stretches England carefully, attentive at the little signs he gives of getting adjusted, before adding a second, then a third finger. Always well lubed, always slow and gentle. His free hand has moved again to England's cock, stroking him with gestures that are too light to jerk him off but do a nice job in melting away some of the pain. 

When both France’s hands grip on his hips, England knows this is it and he breathes, his mind already half-away, away from the fact that he isn't enjoying this as much as he should. He's not enjoying it at all. 

His lips part on a high moan nonetheless when France thrusts forward, deep and precise, directly to his prostate. His body relaxes as his mind coils on itself.

“That’s it,” France says, pressing his forehead against England's, buried deep inside him. “I got you. I’m here.”

The same words England told him some years ago when he had to be the one standing. Words form on their own. “Because we’re here,” he repeats, as with an old joke that isn’t trying to be funny anymore. Fuck, he can’t get that silly song out of his mind. Scotland sang the melody last Christmas and in seconds they were all muttering the never-ending line of we're here because we're here. At a certain point somebody must have taken out the whisky bottle and frankly, England doesn't remember much of last Christmas.

“Because it’s over. Because we won.”

France strokes England’s face, before realising, stilling, and pulling out. 

For a moment, England considers laying there, looking at the ceiling, maybe for hours. He’s still present. His non-human mind is tougher, the shell more solid. It feels like the brink of a disaster nonetheless, one he wants to avoid at all costs. 

He hates being weak, so he does what he always did in past years: nail the ground and get up. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t jump at loud noises and most of his nightmares pertain to other events. Yet, he’s shaking. 

Sitting with elbows on his trembling knees, England buries his hands into his hair. 

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, flinching away as soon as he perceives France’s hand ghosting over his shoulder. 

"It isn't."

"Yes. It is. I shouldn't be like this - this mess."

He's almost one thousand years old. He's seen things, done things, worse than the last four years of war. Been there, done that. Tortures, horrible deaths, seeing people losing limbs, months spent in the mud and their own shit - they were all things he knew long before this last war. 

“Do you remember the sieges? The battlefields? I should have known.”

"Nobody could have known,” France counters and his voice is deadly serious. These are the moments when he acts like the older nation he truly is. When he doesn’t look like he’s in his mid-twenties anymore, but is his true self, savvier and far older.

These are the rare occasions on which England can even consider thinking of France as the Big Brother of Europe he so much claims to be. He has old eyes when he finally locks with England’s gaze, hands falling on his thighs. Old, weary eyes, speaking of visions that do not need to be explained. England knows exactly what they are. 

Blindly, he reaches back to France's hand, still hovering above his shoulder, and grabs it, holding it as a new anchor in a sea-storm. France squeezes and England squeezes back. 

“Sometimes, it still feels hard to breathe,” he says, a hand over his mouth out of habit. 

Another squeeze. "It's over," France repeats. England knows he understands; he knows he still feels the burn of the gas scorching his mouth and throat, melting his eyes and skin. He knows he met soldiers too, the few lucky chaps to return home in one piece, and had to explain why he had still all his limbs when  _ they  _ would be crippled or disfigured or blinded forever. 

Flexing his fingers into his lap, England reminds himself to be thankful he still has all ten of them. 

He doesn't say anything nor does he move for a while, nor does France pressure him. He just keeps holding his hand, grounding him with his body and presence. Centuries of wars taught England the need to be always present, and to pull his mind back into lucidity. It’s in the details, with the rumpled sheets, their nakedness, his erection heavy and uncomfortable between his legs. 

"What now? The mood is surely ruined," he huffs, halfway resigned to each of them finishing things by themselves. 

"Well. I could jerk you off if you want to finish quickly-"

“No.” England doesn’t even let him finish. It would mean admitting defeat and he’d rather not. France rolls his eyes at him. 

"Or,” he reprises, “we can start from where we left off. The mood will come." He opens his arms in silent invitation. “Come here.”

France’s smile is bright while saying this and England decides to trust him once more. 

The new kiss is deep without being lustful, more lips than tongues, and it feels like breathing again. France kisses England because it's his way of caring, and to distract him when he pushes back inside. He waits for a signal and when England gives it to him, he begins to thrust, deep and precise. 

It's not the usual fast and relentless pacing, but something built on rhythm and harmony. Each time, France drives out almost entirely and every time he pushes back in, he hits England's sweet spot dead-on. 

Over and over. Slow but relentless, till England is open-mouthed, gasping for air, his head thrown back onto the pillow. 

It's an old and yet new pleasure coiling in his guts, its warmth growing to the point of being almost painful. Still kissing him, France grabs his legs to have a better angle and his hands stop at England’s sides for better leverage.

England doesn’t want to let go of his anchor against France's shoulder blades. He grabs strongly enough that he’ll leave an imprint, kneading into the muscles as France pounds into him, all sweetness and finesse discarded for a deeper and more carnal desire. There is something raw, something feral in it, a lust no human could ever know.

France screams as he comes and for a split second England panics and feels the urge to kiss him back to silence. Then, France hits his sweet spot one last time and all worries are lost in a pleasure that makes him come untouched all over his stomach, and it rips his voice right from his throat. 

He sighs a sort of satisfied grunt from the back of his throat, feeling his whole body turning pleasantly sore.He had forgotten how post-orgasm bliss felt. 

It isn’t late before old habits kick in, however, so much that he jolts upright, dislodging France in the process. Legs are slung over the mattress edge, and the cold of the floor is somehow familiar to England’s feet.

“Stay!”

France grabs him by the forearm, pulling him back. He drags him into an embrace.

“The hell are you doing?” England exclaims, trying to squirm out of France's hold. France only sighs, with an arm slung over his abdomen.

"Stay," is all France gives in response. "Just," he trails off, for once at a loss of words, "enjoy the moment."

France's hold is strong, and yet not possessive. There's no improper groping or hands rummaging downwards to try and coax him into another round. 

It's just embracing. 

They never embraced. Even before the war. There were no cuddles, no silly chatting to be murmured into the pillow. 

But lovemaking has other rules and sex is only a portion of the whole deal. England tries to free himself, but there’s no use.

“Only five minutes,” he scoffs, shifting to find a more comfortable position. “I want to clean up. I’m not going to sleep like this.”

It gains him one of France’s irritating little laughs. Yet, he doesn't comment on the obvious, only bringing one hand to thread through England’s hair. England sighs, too tired to protest. It’s soothing and even nice, and the more the minutes pass, the less he feels the urgency to escape. 

He blinks in the soft light. He doesn't think him and France have ever been so close for so long without sex, or the sudden urge to hurt each other. It fools him with questions and words so vague, they lose meaning the moment he tries to articulate them out loud.

"I," he says, pressing his mouth onto the other’s skin, and making sure to slur the word as much as he can, “you".

He trusts France to fill the gap. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Follow up of "We're here because we're here". In the nationverse I don't think nations suffers from psychological issues the way a human would do, but for the sake of tagging, I still decided to call it PTSD. I am fully aware real PTSD is way broader.
> 
> Betated by green-dragon templar
> 
> Title from "Aftermath" by Siegfried Sassoon.


End file.
